


Monstrous

by TheCheerfulPornographer



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012), Inception (2010)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bane POV, Dreams, Identity, M/M, One Shot, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Shower Sex, Spanking, established Arthur/Eames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCheerfulPornographer/pseuds/TheCheerfulPornographer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bane dreams that he is someone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monstrous

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Bane's POV includes creepy/violent imagery, and subtle references to past non-con.

The pain is always there, but the numbness that covers it lays on him like a blanket. He closes his eyes, just for a second. Even the monster needs his rest.

Bane drifts off into sleep.

\-----

His eyes fly open, and the ceiling is all wrong. It's too white and light and airy, and his body's wrapped in softness.

He would not choose to wrap himself in softness.

Bane shifts quietly, assessing the situation, and the air hits his face all strange. He knows it almost immediately, but berates himself for not realizing sooner. 

He has no room for almost.

The mask is missing. It's just _gone_ , and it throws off his whole balance. Bane lifts his head, knowing already that there is no one around him, and it rises up too quickly. He feels light and small, exposed.

If the mask is missing then his face should be raw where it was covered, riddled with holes and cuts and scars. The entry-points of needles, the tubes that make him half-machine. (But not what makes him monstrous; he does that on his own.)

Without the mask, without its gift of precious numbness, Bane should be hurting. He should be on the floor, unable to control his screams.

He runs a hand over his face, and the skin is smooth and whole. There are two cheeks, a nose, a chin. Everything normal, healthy. Human. 

He feels around the contours of his lips and cautiously, carefully pulls open his mouth. (It's been years, maybe a decade, since he could open his mouth fully.) The muscles of this face work fine, but his brain feels dull and hazy, like it's forgotten the commands. Finally, though, his lips come apart, his jaw moves, and his face stretches out into a yawn.

He had forgotten about yawning.

He touches his face for another minute, noticing the shape of the nose and the curve of the jawline. He decides, in that moment, that this must be a dream; it is the only option. No one could _do_ this to him, for him — and if someone could, why would they? No one alive has any reason to repair him.

The sensory impressions are very vivid though, exactly like they're real. The room he's in stays solid and plain, never shifting shape like they do in his normal dreams.

 

There are 3 doors and two windows, all of which appear unguarded. One window looks out onto a brick wall, the other on a skyline filled with medium-height buildings. There's an exotic air to the architecture, something about the angles. He can tell this isn't Gotham, just by looking at their roofs.

Of the three doors, one is obviously a closet, with no sound of light or movement from inside. Another must be the room's exit. It's locked, and the latch is on this side. (Of course, it could be all a ruse. But why go through the trouble?)

The third door is the one that draws in Bane's attention. Yellow light streams from all the cracks, and the sound of running water comes from beyond. The pattern of the water changes as he listens — someone's moving, underneath. Obviously in the shower.

He's curious who his dream has hidden there, and why.

Bane rises from the bed, moving deliberately and slowly. He feels very much wrong, without the mask. Such a small thing, but it changes his whole balance. 

He makes a few careful movements, whisper-silent, exploring. Ducking, punching and kicking, learning how to compensate. Luckily, this body seems very similar to his real one. It's minus several scars and plus a lot of ink, but the shape of it, the bulk and the power that are his tools — those are the same. 

The muscles do feel subtly different, more flexible in some places and weaker than his own in others. They seem accustomed to a different kind of movement, to a looser, softer stance. Still, they are more than adequate for his purpose.

When he's satisfied himself with his defenses, Bane straightens and turns toward the bathroom. There's no point in waiting; he has the sense that beyond that door lies the point of this whole dream. He might as well go and face it head-on.

On the way to the door, his eyes brush past a mirror. He quickly lets his gaze slide off and away. The face there, with its thick lips and long, straight nose — that isn't him, and it never will be.

He has no room for maybes, anyway.

 

He opens the door silently, braced for impact, but nothing comes flying at him. Rapidly he scans the scene. It's a small but cheery bathroom, currently clouded full of steam. There's a fine-looking suit neatly hung up on the towel rod, and two toothbrushes spooning on the sink. The sound of running water doesn't change, even though air currents make it obvious that someone has come in.

Strange.

He strides forward and pushes the curtain aside in one fluid rush, ready for anything at all to spring out. A figure from his past, Talia, some kind of monster... even the Batman. What he sees, though, is not at all what he was expecting. 

It's that cop, the lovely one — with the vaguely Asian features, and the Anglo-Saxon name. John Blake.

Blake stands with his head tilted back under the water, running both of his hands over his head. Trails of shampoo run down his neck, over his chest and flat, pale stomach. Bane follows one with his eyes, weirdly fascinated, until it reaches the nest of curly hair at the man's groin.

Blake doesn't react with surprise or alarm at Bane's presence. This is Bane's first clue that this might not actually be John Blake. 

The second clue comes when probably-not-Blake flips his hair out of his eyes and looks up at Bane, and _smiles_. 

It's a small smile, just a quirk of his mouth, but it's still unmistakably a grin. "Jesus, Eames, are you going to stand there all day or are you going to get in? The floor's getting all wet." Despite the strident words, the underlying tone is fond.

_Eames_.

The word reverberates strangely in Bane's skull, as if it already has a place there. Like he's heard it before, although he knows that he hasn't. He strips off his loose pants and boxers, noticing that he's well on his way to an erection.

Nude, he steps into the shower, finding his footing in the spray. He says nothing in response, just grabs not-John-Blake roughly, wrapping his hands around the man's narrow hips. They look huge against the pale, slender torso, and he thinks, not for the first time, how easy it would be to break this man in two. 

The man does not resist, though, even when Bane spins him around and pulls in close. His back hits against Bane's chest with a wet smack, and Not-Blake arches up a little, tilting his head back on Bane's shoulder. Bane can clearly see his parted mouth, the lips all wet and pink, and each droplet of water that clings to his eyelashes. 

He is lovely. Bane has always thought so, though it gives him no more sympathy for the man, or for his cause. He would still kill John Blake in an instant, and feel no remorse. 

This isn't John Blake, though.

Still, it would be easy, oh so easy to tighten one fist around this man's slender neck, to push and punch and twist him; but Bane does not. Instead, he pushes the weight of his cock along the crack of the man's ass, the skin made slippery by water. He drags it down and shoves it in between his thighs, curious how this man will react to his intrusion.

What he does is sink back into Bane's arms, like no one has ever done before. Bane takes his weight without blinking, but he is still surprised. The man lets out a pornographic moan, and the sound of it runs down Bane's spine like Venom, burning as it goes.

He's drawn many a moan from a man's throat, but never one that wasn't pain. For some reason, the sound affects him deeply.

"Eames," the man says again, and rolls against him in a way that makes Bane's eyes close. His fingers dig into the man's hips even harder; this must hurt now, just a little. If the man had any doubts about where this was going, he must have them no longer.

Bane is going to fuck him, here in the shower, in his dream. Whether he wants it or no.

Though he sure does seem to want it.

Not-Blake raises an arm, and reaches it behind him. Bane looks at it warily, knowing that it poses him no threat. He could easily catch the hand in one broad fist and squeeze or twist, hearing the sounds of the delicate bones as they shatter. But all the man does is settle his palm on the top of Bane's head, as far back as he can reach. He kneads and slightly tugs against the hair, which is currently far longer than Bane ever allows it.

It feels strange, being touched in this way, without the thick strap of the mask to block the petting. Strange, and strangely good. Bane feels his cock twitch against his stomach.

"You missed me, didn't you?" the man says softly, smiling at him. "Go on, say it. It won't kill you. Say, 'I missed you, Arthur.'"

_Arthur._

This name, too, seems strangely familiar.

"I missed you," Bane says, and for some reason it feels honest, even though it is a lie. He licks his lips, and says, "I'm going to fuck you now." The man —  _Arthur_  — just smiles, and rolls his hips again.

Bane shoves Arthur forward roughly, pinning him up against the wall, and knocks his thighs as far apart as they will go. In the shower, Arthur can't spread his legs too widely, but that's fine. It will just make him feel tighter.

He holds both of Arthur's wrists above him, easily grasping both of them in one hand. Arthur is helpless, but he doesn't seem afraid — he's not stiff, not resisting, not trying to pull away. Nor is he trembling and begging Bane for mercy.

It's all very strange. But Bane pushes forward anyway.

He moves his other hand from Arthur's shoulder and caresses the man's ass, taking a moment to admire the shape and the fine details. There is strength in that hardness, in the whipcord coils of muscle, like this Arthur is constantly on the edge of movement. And vulnerability, too, in the delicate ridges of skin that enfold the hidden entrance, all puckered and flushed and shy.

Arthur grinds against the tile as Bane gropes him. "Mmm, Eames, fuck me," he bites out, sounding bossy and impatient. "Come on, fuck me, I'm still loose. Just do it." 

Bane doesn't like his tone, so he raises an open hand and lands a stinging slap on Arthur's ass, right in the meat of his left butt-cheek. He only holds back his strength a little, and Arthur rocks forward and gives a little broken shout. For symmetry, Bane slaps him again, on the right side. Arthur howls, but instead of twisting in Bane's grasp, he bows his head and raises his ass up even further, until he's almost on his tiptoes. He wiggles it in the air in a way that Bane would find abhorrent, if it wasn't so damned hot.

Bane shoves two fingers in, roughly. (He doesn't really know how to do it any other way.) Arthur was right — he's already fucked open. By someone. 

Was it Eames? 

He thinks so.

Bane uses his fingers only briefly, pumping them in and out. He likes watching Arthur's thighs tremble and shake when he thrusts in the third one, the man's slender body working to adjust. Bane doesn't give him too long before he pulls them out completely, Arthur whining at the loss. He grabs Arthur's sharp, protruding hipbone in his free hand, and without warning pushes the tip of his cock inside. 

He stops then, thinking to give Arthur a minute to adjust; after all, the man is lubed with only water, no matter how loose he might be. But Arthur jerks beneath his hand, and stubbornly pushes back. 

Before Bane can stop him, he's halfway down the shaft, panting and moaning prettily. His pale skin is flushed all over, and not just from the heat of the shower. (In fact, the water's starting to go frigid; but it still looks lovely streaming down Arthur's neck and back, so Bane ignores it.)

Broken phrases trip from Arthur's tongue, and Bane wonders if he even knows what he is saying. "God, yes, Eames," he whimpers, and, "so big, oh God, so big," and also, "I love it when you're rough with me. Don't hold back, Eames, you know that I can take it."

Bane takes the hand that was restraining Arthur's wrists and moves it to his neck, wrapping it around his throat and squeezing lightly. Not too hard, not meant to injure. He just keeps it there as a reminder, like a collar on Arthur's neck. Telling him who he belongs to. 

He thrusts his hips forward as far as they will go, until his treetrunk thighs slap against Arthur's wet ass. Arthur receives him gracefully, all smooth and tight and hot. (The man definitely has practice.) All thoughts of restraint fly out of Bane's mind then, and he begins to fuck him just as fast as he can go. He rides Arthur hard and demanding, merciless, giving him just what he'd asked for. 

Bane realizes, though, that he wants this just as much himself. He wants to give into this precious, lovely man — give into him and take him over, both at once. This man who _smiled_ at him, who touched his hair and called him Eames.

He realizes suddenly that he wants to be Eames. 

And then he is.

 

Arthur moves a hand to touch his own cock, and Eames slaps it away harshly. He squeezes Arthur's neck a little bit, in warning. "No. From my cock, or not at all," he growls.

Arthur's response is a desperate-sounding wail; Eames can tell that his body craves release. He clings to the wall as Eames fucks him even harder, holding nothing back of his size or of his strength.

The bruising pace is doing a job on Eames, too, and he can feel his balls starting to tighten. But he meant it, what he said. He wants to get to see Arthur come and writhe and wail, all impaled on his cock. So he focuses on keeping a steady pace and on his breathing, in and out and in and out, against the rhythm of his rutting.

It works. Arthur snaps suddenly and without warning, like a rubber band stretched to the break. He collapses forward, losing his footing completely, while his come spurts out and splats onto the shower wall. Eames holds him up easily, effortlessly, keeping himself always seated deep inside. Arthur's body pulls at him, drawing him in further, and he can feel every wave of Arthur's orgasm.

It is beauty, something primitive and wild. _This is how we are supposed to be,_ Eames thinks. _Just like this, fucking like animals. This is what we are._

If the thought seems out of place, he has no time to question, for just then his vision goes white and he convulses. He grasps Arthur's hips in both hands and spills his semen deep in Arthur's ass. They crash against the wall together as Eames loses his balance. Arthur's ass is slick with come, and Eames slams into him one last time, feeling the skin part and muscles open all around him. Lovely. 

He finishes with an incoherent shout, and the last of his come whitens Arthur's rim, for just a second. Then it is washed away and gone.

_Jesus Christ._

He breathes for a minute with his eyes closed, trying to remember his own name. When he opens them again, he's face to face with Arthur, and he barely keeps from jumping. He hadn't noticed the other man twisting in his grasp. How did Arthur even do that?

_Sneaky bastard,_ he thinks fondly.

"Eames," Arthur says again, leaning in close. His voice is low and ragged, like silk that has been ripped, and his eyes are dark and sleepy. 

Then he kisses Eames. 

This, more than anything, undoes him.

The feeling of lips pressed against his own, soft and emotive; a nose just fitting in the hollow of his cheek, breathing together with him, at the same time; teeth nipping at him lightly, a tease with a hint of pain; and Arthur, licking his way into a kiss. 

It's all new, like Eames has never met his tongue before.

Arthur moves down to his jaw and the side of his neck, sucking his own bruises onto Eames's skin. Eames, who bares his neck for the first time, and is lost.

 

Arthur stops kissing and Eames can't think of how to make him start again, so they pant and sweat and lean on one another, chest-to-chest. When Arthur pushes away, Eames almost gives a cry of protest, but he bites it back. It doesn't matter. He's not going anywhere today, and neither is Arthur.

They have plenty of time.

The water is ice cold now, and Arthur twists the tap as he climbs out. His ass is red, with perfect double handprints where Eames spanked him. Eames grins and admires his work, as he towels off.

Arthur wraps the towel around him and leans toward Eames, resting an open hand lightly on his chest. "You must be really worn out from all that effort," he says slowly, flirting. "Why don't you go back to bed, and I'll go get us some breakfast and then join you?"

"Mmm, that sounds lovely, darling," Eames flirts back. "You always have the greatest plans."

He leans in to kiss Arthur. It's different this time, just a brief brush of lips, but the warmth of it stays with him as he wanders back into the bedroom, as he lies down on the bed, as he wraps himself up in softness and warmth.

Eames drifts off into sleep.

\-----

Bane's eyes fly open.

The pain is always there, but the numbness that covers it lays on him like a blanket. He turns his head and feels the mask, thick and heavy on his face. The tubes and needles, the tight band — the device that reminds him he is monstrous.

He is alone, of course. Who would dare to approach him while he slept?

Bane stares up into the darkness above him, for a time.

 

 

 

_  
(Somewhere else, in a world that might be the same world, someone is pulling out a needle. He says, "Do you think it worked?"_

_Another someone says, "Yeah. I think that we got something we can use."_

_"Really, though, John Blake? How did you ever guess..."_

_"I dunno, I... It's strange. In a weird way, I almost feel like I know him."_

_"What, Bane? That's a little creepy."_

_"Yeah. Maybe it's just from studying your research."_

_"Sure, I guess so."_

 

_They stare at one another for a moment, and then get back to work.)  
_


End file.
